Movie Night
by YellowRosesAndHearts
Summary: A series of seven one-shots, featuring the CBI watching movies together. Final Chapter, J/L: "This night is something he's had before. Something he misses now, more than anything."
1. 3D

_**This is gonna be a seven-chapter thing, featuring the CBI watching various movies. This first chapter wasn't my favorite idea, but I wanted to get it out of the way. I was the last person I knew to see the dark knight, and I finally saw it with some guy in i-max who had already seen it, but went with me anyway. So I essentially ripped off my own life for an idea. Please r&r. The second chapter is already written but not typed, so it should be up tomorrow.**_

She doesn't get out much.

Lisbon doesn't, and she's generally fine with it. She doesn't like parties, not really, and she's horrible at dating. She drinks occasionally, but not enough for it to be a pastime. She never goes to clubs unless she needs a serious ego boost.

The same thing goes for movies. She despises the idea of going to the movies as a general dating practice—just what is the point of going on a date with someone if all the "getting to know you" time is spent being silent with your eyes glued to a big screen? But she hates going to the movies alone just as much, sitting in a theater without some comforting presence beside her.

And so, now, she's screwed. It's August, and she's the last person in the world who hasn't seen _The Dark Knight._ That new Batman movie, the one with Heath Ledger playing the joker. Absolutely everyone else she knows has already seen it.

Cho and Rigsby went on the opening weekend—one of their man dates, as it were. They had invited her to come along but she was tired, and anyway, hanging out with Cho and Rigsby was rather like third-wheeling a couple.

Jane went to see it by himself. He had no qualms about going to the movie theater alone, frequently used the opportunity to people-watch. No one ever thought that he was sad, or desperate, or anything. She figured that if you were attractive enough, people gave you the benefit of the doubt when it came to having quirks. Something like that.

And Lisbon, god only knows what she was waiting for. She didn't have many friends, she worked too much for that, and all of them had already gone. And so she was stuck.

If she had stopped to think about it, which she hasn't, she would probably say that Jane hasn't noticed it. She would be sadly mistaken, she realizes one Friday morning, when she comes in maybe twenty minutes later than usual, and finds him in her office, sitting at her desk.

She already knows he has the keys to her office. He made a copy of them one day when she left them in the squad room kitchen, before giving them back. And he made sure he knew about it. Apparently it wasn't fun doing something irritating if he didn't get to torment her with it.

So she walks in, and Jane is sipping tea at her desk like it's his, and she unloads her crap like she doesn't see him. Puts fresh cheese sticks and Diet Cokes' in her mini-fridge, empties a manila folder next to his tea cup.

"Lisbon, dear, you might want to be a bit nicer to me. I've got a surprise for you."

"I'll have a surprise for _you_ if you call me 'dear' again, and it won't be a nice one." She keeps shuffling around in her office, trying not to betray any interest, even as it grows inside her against her will. Jane's little surprises are always much more thoughtful, much more spot-on than most people's. It makes sense. The nature of his gift is one that allows him access into the smallest, faintest nuances of human desire. Or the more obvious, the less deeply-rooted. Whichever one he decides to use.

He removes two tickets from his shirt pocket. But they aren't movie tickets, not to a theater. They're bigger, trimmed in red. Tickets to a showing at the I-max theater in a museum nearby.

"What is this, Jane?"

"_These,_" he says, holding up the tickets so she can see them better, "Are two tickets to see the Dark Knight in I-max tonight at eight-thirty. You and I have plans tonight, young lady."

"How do you know I don't already have plans?"

"Lisbon, please. Give me a little credit."

"I'm not going to the movies with you, Jane." She doesn't even have to think about it. Movies are too… date-ey. Even though she hates going to the movies with dates, even though she's fairly certain Jane won't try to feel her up in the dark… still.

"You're right. You're not." He shoots her a cheeky grin. "You're going to the Technology Institute with me to see a movie. Just imagine. The theater's a big half-circle, special effects in real-time, real-size. Right in the action."

"No, Jane. It's not appropriate." There is that. Maybe going out after dark to see a movie with someone who works for her isn't the most advisable thing she's ever heard of.

"Why not? It's not like it's a date." He raises his eyebrows at her, grinning. She hates that look on him. "Trust me, Lisbon, if I had the intent of seducing you, I'd come up with a much better plan than this."

For anything, she wants to ask him just what the "better plan" would be, but she knows better. You just can't give Jane openings like that.

"I'm sure you would, Jane," she replies airily. "But that doesn't change that fact that it's inappropriate."

She realizes too late that the "appropriateness" track, which would work on most people, will bounce off of Jane with ease. He's just not the kind of person to give a crap about that kind of thing. At all.

"So, consider it a birthday gift. It would be appropriate for me to get you something for your birthday, right?"

"My birthday was three months ago. And you already bought me something."

"Christmas, then."

"It's August, Jane."

"Then two co-workers trying to build up their relationship for the well-being of the team as a whole."

She laughs, she can't hold it in. He has persistence, she has to give him that. He's chasing after her now like she's a potential lover, and she can't help but wonder how much more persistent he would be if she were that. He strikes her as the kind of man who relishes the pursuit. Of anything.

"Why are you doing this?"

He shrugs. Of course he's not going to say. Jane expects people to give him absolutely everything about themselves, while giving away nothing in return. And the scary thing is, he very often succeeds.

"I'll be at your apartment to pick you up at eight o'clock, Teresa."

She can't even being to tell him all the things wrong with that sentence. One, she doesn't want him anywhere _near_ her apartment, two, he's definitely _not _supposed to be calling her by her first name, and three, most importantly, she hasn't even said yes yet! What the_ hell _is going on here?

But before she can say anything, he's up and out of her chair, leaving her office without a backwards glance.

***

Jane is ten minutes early. He's there at seven-fifty, and she's running around trying to find her favorite pair of jeans. The light blue ones that make it look like she actually has hips, even though she doesn't, at all.

She doesn't find them, mostly because it's too distracting having Jane in the next room while she runs around without pants on. She finally just grabs the first pair she sees—they're black, and make her hips look even more non-existent than they actually are. She has time to mentally slap herself as she's re-arranging her dark hair in the mirror, for trying to look good for an event (is it an even? Just what exactly is this called?) that she doesn't even want to go to.

Once they get there, Jane actually springs for the five-dollar popcorn the concession stand sells, and buys her a hot dog without her asking for it. He guides her up the stairs in the dark theater with his hand in the small of her back, to a pair of seats directly in the center.

The popcorn is great. They put too much butter in it, which is exactly the way she likes it. She grabs it in handfuls, feeling rather like Rigsby eating junk food. Or Rigsby eating anything.

The movie is good, though made even better by the three-dimensional screen. She laughs appreciatively at the Batman voice that Christian Bale puts on, cringes whenever the joker is on the screen. She and Jane nudge each other when an exciting scene comes on, bright-eyed, laughing like old friends.

About an hour of the way through, Jane leans over—closer than is necessary, really—and whispers in her ear, "You're hogging the popcorn." The sudden sound of his voice, husky, because he has trouble whispering, and the sudden closeness of proximity in the dark room makes her jump.

"Shut up," she mumbles back. But now she's struck by the intimacy of it all—the knowledge that he's less than a foot away from her, in the near pitch black. If she drifts her knee a bit to the right, she'll catch his knee. She's never really realized just how close that is.

Occasionally, she'll turn around and catch him watching her, a soft smile cut across his lips, grinning at her reaction to something funny, or scary, or sad. The first few times she stared him down right back, but after that she just let him watch her.

And then when Harvey Dent turns his face to the screen, and shows half of it mangled, skinned—vessels out in the open and bones visible, she flinches involuntarily. She's always been a wimp when it comes to the creepy parts of movies, but she hates when a guy takes advantage of the moment to pull her close—it always feels like an invasion, an intrusion. Jane reaches over to squeeze her hand, one strong, steady squeeze, and releases her. Almost like he understands.

She leans back in her seat, putting her feet up on the back of the empty chair in front of her, and grabs another big handful of popcorn. Jane snickers and mutters to her, "I've really got no idea how you're so tiny, woman."

She likes it all. It's not a date, but if all her movie dates could be like this, she'd gladly take it and run.

She is here, floating in the dark, feeling disembodied in some alternate universe, like being in a fantasy world, but not by herself. It's her and Jane. Together.

Having the same dream.


	2. Cinemax

_**Okay, I know I said I'd post the second chapter tomorrow. But the night was still young, so hey. This is an amusing one, featuring the boys stumbling onto a porno accidentally. Not graphic at all, but a heads up. This wasn't going to be in first person, but I just started channeling Cho, and the first person happened. As always, reviews are nice. **_

_**And I don't own the mentalist. Nor would I want to, I'd probably screw it up.**_

_*******_

Me and Rigsby and Jane are sharing a hotel room in Washington, one with two beds and a pull-out couch, and an ugly gray carpet. Van Pelt and the boss are next door, of course, it's after midnight, and we just got back from dinner.

Jane never sleeps, but we knew that already. Rigsby doesn't sleep much either, not really—he collects three of four hours a night, and then crashes every few days. It's a weird schedule, but I guess it works for him.

So anyway, I'm the only one who keeps reasonable hours—I actually wake up when it's light outside, and, shocker of shockers—I go to bed when it gets dark. I know. Crazy. So I'm ready to hit the hay, but I'm stuck with the Wonder Twins. Lovely.

Jane is taking a shower, so Rigsby and I are flipping through the premium channels. Titanic. Too sappy. Schindler's List. Too depressing. Dirty Dancing. Just… absolutely not. And so on, so I don't realize we're headed into the land of late night Cinemax. If you don't know what that means… great, you're virtuous. Good deal. However, if you do know what that means, you know it's about to get very uncomfortable in here.

Starting… now.

There's two women on the screen. You know the kind—sucked in, tucked it, sliced, diced, and pumped full of silicone like they need it to live. One blonde and one red head going at it, who were probably both pretty before they became acquainted with plastic surgery. It's not attractive. It's a little bit sad, if you want to know the truth.

But I'm getting off track. The point is, I'm scrambling to turn the channel like any respectable man would do at this point, when Rigsby stops me.

Now, if you're the type who likes to watch porn with your best friend, have at it. I mean it. To each his own, I say. Live and let live. I'm not stopping you.

_Unless_ I'm your best friend, in which case you'd better go find a nice padded room and cry about it, because it isn't happening. I certainly am stopping you. Right now.

I'm about to explain this to Rigsby when he says, "I think I dated that girl in High School." He's pointing out the red head with the Triple-F chest and the nose job.

At this point, I should explain that I'm from California—San Francisco, if you're curious—and Rigsby is not. He grew up in some nowhere town in Colorado. Point being, if Red Triple-F ever set a single, solitary _toe_ in Rigsby's home town, he'd know it. For _absolute_ sure.

"You dated _her_?" I say, with some derision.

"I think. Before the boobs, and the nose job, and—"

"And the face lift, and the tummy tuck, and the collagen in her lips? Yeah, okay."

"Seriously. We went to the Sophomore dance." Rigsby is leaning up closer to the screen, trying to get a better look at the girl, looking like some kind of mad scientist squinting through a microscope.

"Well, Rigsby, I think it's safe to say you weren't her type." If the blonde on the screen is any indication.

"She's not into it," Rigsby replies. "Look at how dead her eyes are."

If you've ever seen a porn flick, you know that the eyes are the very _last_ thing the camera cares about. So I stand up, to see better. I move in close to where Rigsby's finger is pointing. I nod. He's right. Her eyes do look dead.

Of course, this is the point where Jane busts in from the bathroom. His hair is slicked back, and he's wearing a blue pajama set with clouds all over them, like it's the second grade.

If I were in a position to tease, man oh man, I would go to town right now. But I'm not. I'm crowded around a TV with a porno on it, next to a co-worker who is pointing at the screen, and I'm nodding. I am in no position to say anything right now. I might as well hand him the gun to shoot me with. I want to die, right here.

Jane could say anything, absolutely anything in the world right now. Anything at all, but he settles on, "So, you've always had a thing for red heads, huh, Rigsby?"

Rigsby colors, and I explain to Jane, "He thinks he dated that girl in high school."

"What was her name?"

"It was a J name. Janet… Jackie… Jennie! That's it! Jennie something. Started with an M. Jennie M."

Jane considers. He does that a lot, turning things over in his head before speaking. "He's not lying."

I'm confused. What the hell. What the fucking hell? "You believe he dated that girl?" Come on. Give me a break.

"I believe he believes it." A distinction only Jane would make. I hate that guy. A pause. "She certainly seems quite skilled at her… trade." Jane is smirking. Eww.

Did I say I wanted to die before? I was wrong. I want to die now. Right now. I want to become a giant puddle of Cho on the floor so housekeeping can mop me up and get me the hell out of here.

Rigsby gives a devious grin. "She always was." Okay, I was wrong again. Now. Kill me now.

Jane and Rigsby watch for another few minutes. For informational purposes, they say. To see if the red head is really Rigsby's ex-girlfriend. I know better. Jane knows just how uncomfortable this kind of stuff makes me, and he intends to ride out my discomfort for as long as he can. Because he's a bastard. I like the guy, but it's true.

I almost fall to my knees with relief when I hear a knock on the door. I open it, and it's the boss. Wearing red plaid pajama pants, a wife beater, and bare feet. I've never been so happy to see her, and that includes the time she was held hostage and almost got shot and I was terrified that she died.

"You know, I'm in no position to tell people how to spend their nights." Lisbon's green eyes are twinkling with amusement and mischief. "But could you turn that down a bit? It's hard to sleep listening to moaning in the next room."

Okay, I know I said it three other times, but now I mean it. Really. Somebody kill me.

"It's not what you think, boss. Rigsby—"

Spare me the details, please, Cho." She spins back around to her room, and disappears.

Just as we're falling asleep, I find a piece of poster board paper with the TV schedule on it. Channel 623. _Colorado Girls_. Starring _Malone, Jennifer._

I'll be damned.


	3. The Rules

_**Yay! Chapter three. This one made me happy, because I've been wanting to write about Jane/Grace for a while. This is them watching the movie "He's just not that into you." I'm not sure if it's OOC, especially at the end, but it was fun. There's a nod to J/L if you squint, because I can't help it. Please R&R.**_

It's a rare day off.

I'm a rookie, and a good one, I think—and that means I haven't had a Saturday off in almost two months. It's going to be a quiet day—I'm standing in line for a movie in the mall, wearing a pink tee-shirt and jeans, which feels foreign after months of suits. A quiet, uneventful afternoon.

In front of me, a group of women, maybe five to seven years older than me, look off to the left, giggle at what they see, and turn back, nudging each other. Like it's high school, and they're ogling some hot jock who doesn't need to shave yet, but does it to feel like a man. I snicker to myself at them, until I see who they're checking out. And then I'm not smiling anymore. I'm rolling my eyes.

It's Jane.

Jane, wearing a white tee shirt, jeans, and an understated leather jacket, strolling through the mall all self-assured, like he does this every day. Quiet afternoon with myself and a chick flick? That idea is officially toast.

He comes up to me, of course—his eyes get brighter, he bounces over to stand beside me in line like a little kid. The women in front of me look sour, and I actually laugh. As much as I like Jane, they have no idea what I'm saving them from.

"Van Pelt!" He's smiling that dangerously handsome, infectious sort of smile. "Aren't we looking lovely today? The pink suits you."

Okay, I want to be annoyed. I really do. I want to be annoyed so I can be cold, and then Jane will tell me to have a nice day, and I can go on with my afternoon as planned. Not that I dislike Jane, far from it, but with him everything turns into an event, and I'd like some peace for at least one day. If that doesn't totally make me a bitch.

But I'm not annoyed. That's the thing. It's really hard to be annoyed when you've got Jane with you going a million miles an hour—the sheer _energy_ is enough to make you smile. You really can't help it. I'm not blessed with Lisbon's poker face, and even she has trouble keeping it in.

So that's the point. I'm grinning back. I'm encouraging Patrick Jane. God help me.

"And you're here to see 'He's Just Not That into You'? Mind if I tag along? I've been meaning to check that one out."

It sounds like a question, right? The untrained ear would think he was asking permission. But I know him, and the untrained ear would be sadly, sadly mistaken. It's not a question, it's a statement of intent.

So, the best thing to do? Roll with it. Trying to change Jane's mind is like standing in front of a train and politely asking it to stop. It's something I've learned in the past few months, and something which the boss is just recently coming around to—with Jane, the best thing you can do is try to limit the damage.

We get to the front of the line, and he orders our tickets with some air of authority. He takes out his wallet to pay for them. I shut my mouth and figure I'll leave the seven-fifty on his desk at work on Monday.

The lady behind the counter—a pretty blonde in her early fifties, I would guess—smiles at me. I peek at her name tag. Her name is Paula.

"You've hooked a good one, honey. Coming to see chick flicks with you?" She raises her eyebrows suggestively at me.

Um… say what now? What just happened? I guess it's a reasonable assumption to make—it's a Saturday afternoon and we're seeing a movie, dressed casual. He's older than me, but not anywhere near enough to be my father, and he doesn't look enough like me to be my brother. And he's good looking, to be sure—if I knew him a little bit less, I'd probably be attracted to him. And so as these thoughts are going around in my head, I'm silent a bit too long, because it gives Jane time to swoop in.

"Well, Gracie here is absolutely worth it," he says with a cheeky grin. Putting an arm around me to seal the deal.

Gracie? Seriously? _Gracie?_

What would Lisbon do right now? She's a little bit tougher than me in this department, the Jane department. She'd do something to embarrass him back. I'm trying to channel my boss right now, but it's not coming. And so I'm silent while he pays, silent as he gets the tickets, silent as he gives Paula a charming smile and grabs my hand to lead me away. Seriously. There is something wrong with me.

It's not until we get more than fifty feet away that I snatch my hand back, and glare at him. "Do you always have to do that?"

"Do what?"

"Embarrass me."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm sure."

My mind is stuck on a case we worked three months ago—the one with that wacko art dealer—when we went probing around in that small town, and Jane just _had_ to make up that story that we were, what? Engaged, and he had been my professor but had seduced me, and that was why he was over ten years older than me and we were getting married. Just in case the random people sitting in the art store happened to want to know that about two complete strangers. And then, as now, I'd just kept my mouth shut and waited for it to be over.

"Popcorn?" Jane's voice breaks through the memory. Well… I'm cutting out junk food. I'm always _cutting_ out junk food, because I never entirely cut it out. So, sure. Extra butter. And packets of salt on the side. Why the hell not.

***

"I don't know if this movie is entirely accurate," Jane whispers loudly to me less than fifteen minutes in.

"It's not scientifically proven, Jane." I hiss back. "It's just a movie."

The two women in front of us turn around and glare, and I fall silent. Jane doesn't.

"Well, that's true," he says, gesturing at the screen. It's at the part where Beth's fiancé doesn't want to get married. "If a man doesn't marry you after seven years, something's up. Although it's stating the obvious, I'd say."

"Be quiet. And some women need to hear it," I reply. It's true. I rub my arms, trying to warm them in the cold of the theater.

He turns to me. "You speaking from experience?" He means to whisper, but Jane entirely lacks volume control. The women in front of us turn to glare again.

"My sister," I whisper back. "She waited nine years for her boyfriend to marry her before she realized what we all already knew."

"Realized what?"

I look up at him. He's turned toward me, blue eyes wide in the dark. Jane's a good listener, he's interested in people. Most of the time I'm annoyed by it, because it translates into prying, but it's actually a good quality.

"That he never really loved her. I swore I wouldn't let that happen to me."

"That's sad." Then he pauses, considering. "I think that explains something about you, Grace."

Of course he takes a small, mundane story that's not even about me, and makes it mean something.

"Shut up, Jane."

The movie goes on. It's cute, but undoubtedly a chick flick. I keep looking over at Jane, expecting him to look like guys tend to look when women drag them to see girl movies, but he never does. He watches movies like he watches people; head tilted to the side, rapt, analyzing them.

"That's not true, either," he says later, pointing to the screen again. "That if a man is interested, he'll automatically make it happen."

I shush him with a finger on my lips.

"I'm saying, it assumes all men are wired the same way. Like that book that came out a few years ago, with the rules in it for women?"

"You read that?"

"I read a lot of things. It said that a woman should never, under any circumstances, talk to a man first, because he'll never be interested. "Which is totally untrue."

I shouldn't be interested, but I am. "You think so?"

"I'm sure of it. You, Grace, could talk to almost any man you wanted, and I'm sure that at least eighty percent of the time they would enthusiastically reciprocate."

I find myself giggling, I can't help it. "Be quiet."

"And Rigsby, he's not exactly making it happen, is he? But we all know he loves you."

I've been trying to keep that whole thing to myself, without success. I throw out, half-heartedly, "He does not. Mind your business."

"I just mean, you could drop him a line, and he wouldn't be less interested. All men have had a woman who they just couldn't make it happen with, something got in the way… it happens."

"To you?"

"Well, not to me."

"And why do I doubt you're telling me the truth, Jane?"

"Because you're very perceptive."

"And I've witnessed direct evidence to the contrary." Direct evidence with green eyes and dark hair that comes into the office every day just after seven in the morning.

He looks at me and shakes his head, looking like a man who has been caught. "Perceptive indeed, Grace." He surprisingly slips out of his jacket, and hands it over to me.

"What's this for?"

"You're cold." He says. It's not a question.

I consider giving the jacket back, but I really am cold. The jacket is big on me, the fleece inside it warm and comfortable. "Thank you."

The woman in front of us turns, her face obviously annoyed. "Could you two please shut up?"

I put my hand over my mouth, suddenly guilty.

***

The movie ends after two hours.

As we're walking out, I'm still picking at the kernels in the bottom of the big container of popcorn Jane and I shared. I still have his jacket draped around my shoulders.

"I'm still hungry," I fake-whine.

"So I'll buy you lunch." Jane's smile is charming, and contagious. I don't take time to think about it.

"That sounds nice." Well, it does. Jane can be great company when he decides to be, it turns out.

"I know a good Turkish place."

"I'd rather have Italian."

"Well, that's too bad, isn't it?"

Just before we walk out, Paula from the front desk calls to us. "You two enjoy the movie?"

"Immensely," Jane replies. "Gracie has wonderful taste in movies. She always picks a great one."

He's doing the Gracie thing again. And putting his arm around my shoulders again. And I'm freezing on the spot, unable to move, again. When does this ever end?

"Oh, and he always lets you pick the movies," Paula shakes her head at me. "You've really got a great one, honey."

There are a number of things I could say. Number one, I don't have him. Number two, if I did, I'm sure it's not all it's cracked up to be, although almost every woman he comes in contact with probably wouldn't believe me. The charm just makes them fall in love with him. Number three, I like someone else, and I get the vibe that he does, too.

I don't say any of that. I smile wanly, and keep silent.

"It's not so unselfish of me, if I'm being honest, Paula," Jane says, adopting a naughty look. "I get something quite pleasant out of the deal, if I do say so myself."

"I'm sure it pays dividends," Paula replies, in the same suggestive tone Jane has. Jane grins, enjoying himself way too much.

That's it. He is toast.

"Oh, you have no idea," I say to Paula. I lean up, and plant one right on Jane's lips. My mouth is closed, but his isn't because I've caught him by surprise. It only lingers for a second, it's quite chaste, but Jane obviously wasn't prepared for it.

"It's going to be paying dividends tonight," I continue, fixing him with the most lascivious stare I can manage.

Paula giggles. "You two have a good night, now," she says, as I lead Jane away by the wrist.

His eyes are wide, he's shaking his head at me. Shell-shocked. He can dish it, but he can't take it, huh? I just totally stood in the path of the train, and it stopped in its tracks.

"That's right. I can play, too." I wink at him and start walking to my car.

It takes him a second to catch up.


	4. I'll be there for you

_**So this is the first time Cho killed someone. Takes place pre-Jane. Cho/Lisbon friendship, because I love the two of them. And some Cho-angst, which is weird, but hey—the great thing about him being so undeveloped on the show is that I can do whatever the hell I want with him. I have Lisbon give a big disclosure in here, which might be fundamentally OOC, but I tried to abide by the rule I did in 25 departures, when she opens up to Jane—that she might do it if she thinks it can help him in some way. They're watching a Friends marathon, which I know is not a movie, but it fit. And Cho so reminds me of this guy I know who's obsessed with friends, so I gave him that trait. Please R&R. Sorry to talk so much before the actual chapter begins. : )**_

Laying on my couch, closing my eyes—and _his eyes, blue, wide with panic, looking years younger than he is, dropping his gun, clutching his stomach—blood spraying onto his lips, cheeks, chin, crying—_

Jerking to sit up.

The pizza guy will be here in a few minutes.

It's Saturday night, and it took me three calls to find a pizza place pathetic enough to actually deliver on a weekend night. The pizza is going to be keeping me company during another long night, in which I won't be able to sleep. I haven't slept more than six hours since Wednesday, and considering how the room has started fuzzing at the edges, and the TV seems to be going in slow motion, I'd say it's becoming a problem.

I'm watching the first season of Friends—I'd never admit it to my guy friends, but I watch the show religiously. It's a peculiar trait I've always had, along with eating pickles with peanut butter, and refusing to use public bathrooms. It's unexplainable.

But you have to do things to keep busy—especially if you're me, and you just shot a forty-three year old accountant on a case three days ago, and they took your gun and badge and told you not to come back until they finished investigating you.

I guess I never really realized how much time I spend at work, because the days now seem three times longer without my job to fill them. I'm sure that if I didn't work with the CBI, I'd probably be that creepy guy scratching himself on park benches in the middle of the afternoon, because I just wouldn't have anything else to do.

There's a knock on my door, and I grab twenty dollars to give to the pizza guy.

Only it's not the pizza guy.

It's my boss, at my front door, like an apparition. I'm gaping at her because this is very, very weird—when she gestures to be invited inside.

I've known Lisbon a little over four months now. We met in early May, when I was re-assigned to the CBI, and she was brought in to be my boss. In looks, she immediately doesn't seem like she would be the head of a unit—petite, young, with dark hair and startlingly bright eyes—but she is a tough woman if I've ever met one. She and I aren't friends, or anything close to it, but I like her, and I'd like to think she doesn't entirely hate me. We work well together.

"You look like hell," she informs me. I could say the same for her. Her dark hair, probably pinned back this morning, has fallen out of place, with bits of it streaming in her face—her skin is pale, eyes raw. She has an exhausted look about her that I think I recognize—the look she has after pushing her considerable will off on something.

"If I'm hell," I reply ironically, "You're purgatory at the very least, boss."

She smiles. "It's been a long day." She's lingering now near my breakfast counter, rapt eyes looking around my apartment; I like to keep it tidy, scrubbed, characterless, and for now I am glad of it.

"Did you need something, boss?" I was trying to come up with a subtle way to ask her what the hell she's doing here; as much as I'd like to state the contrary, women very rarely knock on my door after eleven at night. And if I know Lisbon at all, this is definitely not a social call.

"Right," she replies. She puts her bag down on my counter—she doesn't carry a dainty bag, not like most women—her purse is a big heavy canvas thing, practical and sensible like she is. She reaches inside and lays my gun on the Kitchen table, and places my badge in my hands.

I am very, very confused. "But—they said it would take at least ten days to investigate, to get through the paperwork, didn't they?"

Lisbon shrugs. "It was a good shooting. And I need you on the job."

I smile, because it's nice to feel important, and I frankly didn't think that she cared so much. "But how—what did you do?"

"I made them see things my way." Her tone tells me that she's not going to say any more on the subject. Suddenly, her appearance—she looks extremely worn down, probably from haggling with the bureau all day—makes much more sense to me.

I'm turning over my gun in my hands; touching it like it belongs to someone else. It feels cold, unfamiliar. I thought I would be much happier to see it than I am.

My boss tilts her head, and looks up at me. "Should I not have done it, Cho?" Concern echoes in her deep green eyes. "Did you need more time?"

I keep silent. I can't imagine holding my gun again, aiming it again, not after what I've done with it. But I also hate sitting at home, by myself, in the quiet. I love my job.

"Talk to me, Cho," she says. She is leaning against my refrigerator, eyes searching me like I'm a witness in Interrogation that she's trying to coax into speaking.

"You've never killed anyone, right, boss?"

I would have heard about it, at any rate. The CBI can't keep anything quiet. But the sudden stricken, solemn look on her face makes me think differently. "You have," I murmur.

"Once."

"I didn't know."

"It was a long time ago. I was back on the beat at East, I only had that assignment for a year. June 23rd, 1998. I was twenty-four."

"Who was he?" Probably not an accountant with two kids who just got in too deep, couldn't get himself out. Waved a gun at a bunch of cops so his wife wouldn't find out about his gambling addiction.

I can see the reluctance shoot right through her. "It was a long time ago. I don't really remember."

"All do respect, I think you're lyin' to me, boss."

I'm expecting her to look offended; bracing myself for the firestorm sure to come, in which she tells me to mind my own business. But she looks down shyly, and smiles at me. "And why's that?"

"You remember how old you were, exactly where you worked, the date it happened. You remember him, boss." I open my cabinet with the cups in it, and pour her a glass of water. "And anyway, you're not a good liar."

She takes the water from my hands and sips it, closing her eyes. "He was seventeen," she says, surprising me. I didn't actually expect her to talk to me. "He was a small-time dealer in the neighborhood I used to patrol."

"And what happened?"

"I took a chainsaw to him," she quips. I wordlessly raise my eyebrows, and she sighs. "I shot him. He was holding a gun on my partner and me. I did what I had to."

Straight-forward enough. "So you got over it fast."

"No." She looks down. "I did some research on him… you know, after. He was just a kid. His father died when he was ten, his mother got weak after that, and died two years later. Just him and his brothers. They didn't have anything. Fell into dealing drugs." She bites her lip. "I'd met him a few times. Most of the people in the neighborhood had seen me, knew me. He'd always call at me, you know, 'Hey, beautiful, you can come and arrest me any time.' _Such_ a kid."

I smile at that, mostly because I can't imagine anyone cat-calling my boss and living to talk about it. And then I remember that whoever this kid was, he's not speaking much now.

"And then one day… me and my partner were going down some back street. And there he was—Martin. Marty, he told me before. He asked me to call him Marty." She shakes her head. "I begged him to put the gun down. _Begged _him. But he didn't. So I did what I did—and spent the next eight years wishing I hadn't done the wrong thing."

"But you didn't." Somebody's holding a gun on you, you shoot them. I know that, intellectually. I'm not beating myself up because I think I did the wrong thing. I'm not beating myself up at all. I'm doing something else.

"Oh, I haven't told you the funny part of the story yet." She laughs humorlessly, but her eyes look tragic. "They did the autopsy, checked his gun, his clothes. And the gun was empty. The bullets were in his pockets."

I flinch. "Oh, boss."

"I should have known. You know? He was a sweet kid, but he was just so sad. Alone. He couldn't hurt anyone, and I knew that, I _knew _it. I just got scared. Lost my nerve. Messed up." She stops, and looks at me purposefully. "But you didn't, Cho. That guy was going to kill you. You did the right thing."

"I know I did." I pause. "But so did you, boss. You did the best you could with what you had."

She waves me off.

"How long did it take—to get over it?"

She sips some more of the water. "A while. Marty looked like my baby brother. And so for months, I kept having nightmares that I'd shot my brother. Crazy, huh?" She's doing that thing again when she laughs at something that's not funny. It's tragic.

"I don't think so."

"But I got back to work. And that helped me."

I realize the significance of what she's just said, and I swallow a lump in my throat. "Thank you, boss."

My doorbell rings again. It's the pizza guy this time, carrying the Deluxe Extra Large that I ordered, because my mathematically-set mind determined it was a better deal.

"I think I'm going to run now, Cho."

I put the pizza box on my table. "Stay a while. Have a slice. I can't eat this whole thing myself."

"So then what were you going to do before I got here?"

"Now we'll never know, will we?"

She shakes her head, accepting defeat, and grabs a slice, sitting on my couch. "What are we watching?"

"Friends. The complete first season."

She turns and laughs at me. "You went out and bought the whole first season of Friends?"

I shift uncomfortably. "My mother bought it for me. For Christmas." As I'm looking at the Rite Aid bag it came in, with the receipt sticking out.

"You know, I've never seen this before."

I look at her off to the side, incredulous. "Unbelievable. I'm sharing my pizza with someone who's never seen Friends. Oh, how the mighty have fallen."

"Shut up."

And we watch. One episode, then another. Lisbon laughs a lot at it, seeing all of the jokes for the first time, grabbing slice after slice of the pizza sitting on my coffee table. After the sixth episode, she turns to me.

"You know they have those, uh—those personality tests, 'Guess which character of Friends you are'? It's nice to finally know what they're talking about."

"And which one are you?"

She considers. "None of them. But Phoebe is definitely one of my aunts, though."

"Which one am I?"

She cocks her head, seeming to give it serious thought, before replying. "Definitely Chandler."

"Really? I always thought I was Ross."

"No. You're not." She says this definitively, like she's some kind of authority, like three hours ago she didn't just watch the first episode she's ever seen.

"And why not?"

"Well, Ross is a romantic, isn't he?" She looks at me. "Are you a romantic?"

"Not even remotely."

"Then you're not Ross."

I lay back on the couch. I've had four slices of pizza now, and I'm done. Lisbon isn't. "Why am I Chandler?"

"Well, he's—sarcastic, right? Witty. Cynical. And Commitment-phobic."

"You think I have problems with commitment?"

"Somehow, I can see that."

"But he ends up with Monica." Okay, so I'm evil, spoiling the ending. Sue me.

"No he doesn't. You're lying to me."

"Okay, don't believe me."

She looks at her watch. It's after eleven. "I really should go," she says, "Going to get some sleep."

"Well, that sounds nice."

I meant to sound light, but that's clearly not how I come off, because she looks at me, extremely concerned. "You haven't been sleeping?"

"Not much. But hey, it happens."

"Why haven't you been sleeping?"

I actually laugh at this question. "Uh, I'll take I just shot a guy in the stomach three days ago for two hundred, Alex."

"Right," she says. "And that's what you see."

"Not… not exactly." I clench my teeth, not wanting to talk about it, but it's only fair, considering that she shared her story with me. "It's his face—it's right—there. People look younger when they die, don't they?" Biting my lip. "He was in over his head. And when I close my eyes—" I shake my head violently. "So I don't. I'm going to stay awake."

"You bought the DVD set, didn't you? To keep you up."

"Perceptive. There's a reason they made you the boss."

"It's not going to help—not sleeping. You have to try, Cho. You have to." The kind of advice that I know now comes from experience.

I swallow hard. "There's so much blood, boss." Oh, there's water in my eyes. Lovely. I blink it back. "I think there's something wrong with me."

"I think you're wrong. There's something right with you, Cho."

And the next thing I know she's hugging me, but in a way only Lisbon would—there's no warmth, only strength. Her elbows are on my shoulders, hands on either side of my head, gripping it hard— not hugging me, but holding me to earth.


	5. Lost and Found

_**Okay, this is the first Rigsby/Van Pelt thing I've written besides Artistry, which was really more about Jane than anything. They're watching Finding Nemo, which I love. It's an issue how much I love kids movies at almost 19 years old. Anyway. It's very, very fluffy. Much more fluffy than I usually write, because I typically write J/L, which is a very combative relationship. Grace and Rigsby are just… sweet. I guess this takes place at some point in the future, I'm going to say around the middle/end of season 2? sPlease R&R. **_

I'm going to say this, and it's going to sound strange, but I'm just going to get it out there—I don't really like movies.

I mean, don't get me wrong. I've seen plenty of movies I like. If you can get me to sit in front of a TV long enough to get emotionally invested, I'll watch a movie and love it. But whenever someone suggests to me "hey, let's watch a movie," a part of me always groans.

And why? Something about the two-hour commitment. I'm jumpy, energetic. I can't stay in one place for too long.

Then you'd be inclined to ask me what I'm doing on a perfectly good Saturday night, watching an animated movie that came out over five years ago.

And then you'd look three feet to the left of me, and you'd understand.

Grace is here.

And if Grace wants to go _anywhere_ with me—to a Spice Girls concert, wearing matching pink tee shirts, for god's sake—I'm in. Entirely in.

So earlier, when she made a Finding Nemo reference at me and found I'd never seen it, she instantly took it upon herself to make me. She had a copy of it at her house, we could watch it on her couch. She wouldn't be able to make me dinner, she can't cook, but I'm welcome to anything in her refrigerator. And maybe I'd rather go out for a few drinks, or take her for a nice dinner, or go bowling, but I take what I can get.

And it's a strange invitation, coming from her. Oddly intimate, totally left field. Maybe recently she and I have been going to lunch more, joking more on cases, sharing glances at Jane's antics, but she's mostly distant and impersonal, maybe because she knows it's the last thing I want to be.

I follow her lead, do as she does, even if she isn't leading anywhere. Watching the movie, I feel a remarkable kinship with Dori, following Marlin around because alone she's confused, and she doesn't really know how to lead. Waiting for Grace to declare what she wants or not to, but finding the whole thing rather out of my hands.

The movie is about a quest, I think. That's my overriding impression, the thing that strikes me the most. It's about finding something, which I, for some reason, identify with.

And it's funny—I'm probably going to be doing the shark-bait who ha ha thing at work for at least a week. And singing just keep swimming. And so on.

She reaches inside the popcorn bowl—overly cooked and slightly burnt—placing bits of it in her mouth with a far away expression. Her hair is down, which is rare—dark red, vibrant in the low lights, hanging past her shoulders. She's changed out of her work clothes, and she's wearing dark blue jeans and a fitted plain white cotton shirt with sleeves that end around her elbows. I always pegged her to be a glamour girl off hours, but I was wrong. It's simple, comfortable. Not too much.

Nothing to take away from her, to detract from anything. It's all her—the glow in her hazel eyes, and the sheen in her hair—the soft curves of her face, all pure and undiluted. Just like she is.

She's turning now because I've been looking too long, raising her eyebrows and waiting for me to say something.

"I'd really like to kiss you."

That's what tumbles out of my mouth. It's not a question, I'm not asking for permission. It's not a statement of intent. I'm just leaving it out there, waiting for her to do something with it.

_Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming, swimming, swimming…_

And then she seems to make a decision, coming closer. Closes her eyes (her warm breath on my lips, she smells like cherries) and covers my mouth with hers.

Well, I'm kind of paralyzed. Except for the kind of part. Take out the kind of, and you've got me. Not wanting to kiss back too much or too fast, and run her off.

Because there's a danger in wanting something too much. It tends to run away from you, so I don't want to be overeager, I want it to keep going on. For a very, very long time.

Her lips are cool, she kisses softly. I'm mostly still with my eyes open, watching her hands creeping up to my neck, and feeling her hair on my cheek like I'm not there, because this just can't be happening.

She pulls back, looks into my eyes. I'm running my hands over her shoulders and arms, trying to convince myself that this is real, that she isn't some apparition I've dreamed up to keep me company on a lonely Friday night. That it isn't one of the fifty or so other times I've imagined just this.

She understands, and whispers with a perceptiveness that would put Jane to shame, "I'm here, Wayne. I'm right here." Placing soft kisses on my nose and cheeks to convince me.

And that's when I wake up.

Because I'm kissing Grace. I'm actually kissing Grace.

Lips pushing into hers harder now, opening my mouth, tangling my hands into her hair. And god, it smells sweet close up. Some kind of mix between ginger and oranges. Eyes closed now, taking it all in—her warm breath and soft lips, her hands kneading my face, cupping my chin. Kissing me back.

It's urgent, but not desperate—I don't feel the fear that I expect to, the fear of her suddenly saying it's a bad idea. I somehow know that that isn't going to happen. It's the right time. I don't know how I know that. But now is the moment.

She pulls back, and shoots her smile at me. A soft, gentle, beautiful sort of smile. A shy one, and I forget that she's shy most of the time. She's more scared of rejection than I am. She's just as bad at leading. She's Dori, just as much as I am.

"You're a good kisser," she whispers. Looking up at me with wide eyes. A little bit awkward in herself. I can almost feel her heart thudding.

I smile back. "You think?"

She leans in again, kisses me on the nose. Lingers near my lips. "Yes." Her eyes are closed. She is calm, so calm, peaceful. All this time, and this is the easiest thing in the world. Like we do this all the time.

The credits are rolling on the movie. I've missed the last fifteen minutes.

I think, leaning in to kiss her again, that I have to ask her later how it ended. If the quest came full circle; if Nemo has been found.


	6. Women Are From Venus

_**Okay, this Chapter went through a bunch of different stages, but ended up being a VP/L friendship fic, with the two of them bonding for the first time. I don't know if I consider it to be OOC, but I enjoyed writing it, because I think Van Pelt and Lisbon have much more in common than most people think. I like reviews. Thanks to all the reviewers thus far. **_

_**This takes place first season, I guess during Red-Handed in Vegas, on one of the nights that they didn't let us see on the show. That's how I see it.**_

They're sharing a room, but Van Pelt and Lisbon speak little.

There's not much to say, not really—no interesting case developments today, and talking about anything personal is out of the question. Lisbon remembers her sharp words to Van Pelt during her first month-- "we don't talk about our personal lives here. It's not useful, and it's not professional," and almost regrets them, if only for the marked silence in the hotel room, Van Pelt steering wide around her.

Because it's horrifically awkward to share a sleeping space with someone you can't speak to. She regrets saying the words with more venom than she would have if the personal life bit Van Pelt had been driving at hadn't been her mother.

Lisbon thinks that she and Van Pelt could have been friends if they had met differently—the younger agent is good-natured, quick-witted, and deceptively stubborn. But Van Pelt is an employee and an acquaintance, not a friend. They get along well, and like each other fine, but that's all they are.

She hasn't taken to Van Pelt as quickly as she took to Cho, (although she's _never_ taken to anyone faster than Cho), and she hasn't become the maternal figure she is to Rigsby. She and Jane quickly became combative with a large dose of mutual admiration, in awe of each other, while constantly competing. What she has with all of them is intensely personal, even though she told them the same thing she told Van Pelt—keep your personal life out of the work place. But none of them took it to heart as quickly and absolutely as she did.

It's after ten, too early to go to sleep, but after dinner. She and Van Pelt left the men behind after eating in a small diner, and sit, bored, waiting to fall asleep.

"You want to watch TV, Grace?"

Van Pelt raises her eyebrows at the usage of her first name, but lets it pass without comment. "Sure, boss." Tossing Lisbon the remote, dumping the decision off on her. Turning away to plait her shiny red hair for bed, not cold, but certainly detached. _This is your fault_, Lisbon tells herself.

And why is she bothered by it? She sees Jane's face when she asks herself that, hearing his latest round of unsolicited personal advice from earlier tonight, after she refused to tell him when she had her last date.

"_You should let people get to know you more. It's healthy."_

"_You think I'm unhealthy?" A scathing tone in her voice, rolling her eyes._

_He pauses before responding, "Yes, I guess I do." Wearing his winning, ear-to-ear smile. "And lonely." As offhand as if they were talking about the weather. _

She shouldn't let Jane's words affect her, she knows that, but they somehow always do. Jane always manages to get in her head. And if she is inclined to follow his advice, Van Pelt is as good a place to start as any.

Click of the remote. Charlie's Angels movie, the remake, with Drew Barrymore. Works as well as anything. Silence reigns, and Lisbon realizes that she doesn't hear the pitter-patter-thump of steps from the room next door.

"The boys aren't back yet?"

Lisbon is dissociative and professional to the point of being icy, she knows that, but she's always called the three men on the CBI "the boys" as a unit, the closest thing she'll ever get to a term of endearment.

"They went to the bar," Van Pelt replies. A hint of a chuckle in her voice. "Rigsby and Jane dragged Cho against his will."

"Cho never really was a party animal, was he?" It's true. Next to all of them, Cho is so normal, so functional. Such a regular guy. Almost a bit of a shame, dumping him here to contend with them all.

"No, boss. I guess not." Still on her guard, still vigilant. Like Lisbon will at any moment pull out the Gestapo and arrest her if she sounds too warm.

"Didn't they invite you?" Lisbon doesn't always get invited for drinks, she's turned them down enough for them to stop asking, but not inviting Van Pelt would be strange.

Amusement flickers across Grace's face, and she quickly smoothes it out. "It's a boys night." A moment of hesitation, and dancing, mischievous eyes. "Rigsby hasn't been on a date in months. Cho's giving him pointers. Jane's giving him a makeover."

There is a brief pause, before both women burst out laughing. Picturing Rigsby in one of Jane's three-piece suits with Cho's snide wit is almost too funny to bear. Lisbon hasn't laughed in months, not really—not like this. Jane makes her laugh, albeit reluctantly, and Cho is genuinely funny without trying to be, but she doesn't usually laugh like this—this is what it's like to take pleasure in other people. This is what Jane talks about.

"I wish I'd known. I'd pay good money to see that."

"So would I. You should have told me you were interested, boss. We could've taken the department van, and followed them all incognito. Think Charlie's Angels," she says, gesturing to the screen.

"Except there are only two of us. We'd need a blonde."

Van Pelt looks at her questioningly.

"Well, I'm the brunette, and you're the red head. Isn't there always a blonde?"

Grace shrugs. "We could use Jane. I've always found him to be pretty."

Lisbon shoots Van Pelt a quick stunned look, and Van Pelt seems surprised the words have come out of her own mouth. It's a look Lisbon has seen a time or two, usually after Jane has dragged some unexpected emotion out of her—the look of a woman surprised to have feelings. Lisbon thinks that she understands.

"Well, in any case, I hope Rigsby keeps his newfound charm out of the office." Keeping her face serene as Grace does a double take, like she wasn't aware the whole department knows that Rigsby is in love with her. She's been trying to keep it quiet. Van Pelt is protective of herself, almost as much as Lisbon is.

The movie basically consists of a lot of ass-kicking. Ass kicking when tied to a chair, or being held up, or outnumbered three to one.

Van Pelt surprises her by speaking. "I dragged my college boyfriend to see this when it came out." Laughing at the memory, but still wary after she's stopped talking, shooting her eyes over at Lisbon to see if she'll tell her that she doesn't care, don't talk about things like that with co-workers.

But Lisbon doesn't. "Was it a good date movie?" She almost gags when she realizes she's following Jane's advice. She's asking Van Pelt about her personal life.

Grace grins, confused, but rolls with it. "Horrible. Titanic—that's the best date movie. Of all time."

Lisbon shakes her head, and replies in a voice that brokers no argument. "No. When Harry Met Sally. Billy Chrystal. Amazing."

"Billy Chrystal, huh?"

"In that movie. Something sexy about a man who thinks he knows it all." If Lisbon was Freud right now, she'd have a field day with herself.

Van Pelt's eyes widen, she opens her mouth and then shuts it, shaking her head.

"What?" Lisbon asks.

"Nothing."

Minutes go by. A lull in conversation that Grace can't seem to bear, not when they've made so much headway. "So how about that waitress at dinner, huh?" Small talk pulled out of thin air.

Lisbon thinks. She barely remembers the woman. In her early twenties, maybe, and definitely overeager. "What about her?"

"She slipped Jane her phone number."

Lisbon's eyes get wide. "No! She was, like—" She can't find the words to describe it. "She probably still has to show her ID to drink!"

Van Pelt nods, her eyes glittering with gossip. Lisbon wonders if she is usually like this, and she is the only one not to have noticed.

"Is he going to call her?" And she's actually curious, despite herself. The waitress doesn't seem Jane's type, even though she doesn't know at all what his type is.

"He left her a very nice note explaining that she was lovely, but he wasn't in any position to start a relationship now, 'so please don't take it personally, because you're a beautiful girl.'" Van Pelt rolls her eyes. "Apparently she's quite fragile, and wouldn't take rejection well if he didn't call her and she didn't know why."

Lisbon snickers.

More minutes go by. Another ass-kicking montage. Honestly. Lisbon hears herself suddenly say, "I used to pretend I was Farrah Fawcett."

Not sure why she's shared this bit about herself, but also not sure why she should hide it, either. It's not a big deal. It's just how people interact.

Van Pelt scrunches her eyebrows, and Lisbon elaborates. "When I was a kid, and the original Charlie's Angels was on. I pretended I was Farrah Fawcett."

If she told that to Jane, she would most likely get a load of psycho-babble about how it meant she wasn't secure with herself, how that meant that even as a kid, she wanted to look different—tall, leggy, blonde. How she wanted to be something she couldn't be. How she still does.

But Van Pelt is not Jane, and she is eternally grateful. Running a hand through her red hair, nodding in assent. Understanding completely.

"Me too."


	7. The Hills Are Alive

_**Final Chapter. Back to Jane/Lisbon. Watching the sound of music, which is one of my favorites ever. Does not require much explanation, except that I have Jane do quite a bit of musing on his wife. It just kind of went that way. Please R&R.**_

A Thursday night, not too late. Lisbon lives at the top of a five-floor walk up, a hike for Jane after a long day. A chaotic case today, not much couch time. Dragging up her stairs, carrying the sweater she left in the coat room earlier today.

If Jane ever used his formidable powers of observation on himself, he might realize that this is a dumb thing he's doing. But he's always notoriously lacked insight when it comes to himself, so he doesn't. Not even thinking about this being an invasion, or at least not thinking it enough to stop.

A deep breath before delivering four solid knocks. Fixing his face with the ear-to-ear smile that he knows most women find irresistible.

She comes to the door. Wearing a pair of torn jeans, a Dodgers jersey, and her bare feet. Hair pulled back no particular way, with some still hanging in her face. Green eyes growing wide, planting a hand on her hip.

"How the hell do you know where I live, Jane?" Twisting her delicate features into a convincing scowl. Well played.

He holds out the sweater to her. "You left this in the office."

Lisbon's frown deepens, a tell for being in deep thought. She reaches out to take it from him, raising one shoulder, considering her words before she says them.

"So, you came all the way across town, after dark, to bring me a sweater in the middle of July? Is that the story you're sticking with?" A sparkle in her green eyes, knowing she's scored a point. Which used to be rare, but seems to be happening more and more these days.

He grins, leaning one arm against her door frame. "It seems I've been caught."

Lisbon crosses her arms, not moving from the door, not making this easy. If he wants something, he knows, he'll have to ask for it.

"So…" Swallows, looks into her eyes, knowing that delivery is paramount. "It would be polite for you to invite me in for coffee."

"I don't drink coffee after seven." Biting her lip, holding her ground.

"I don't remember saying you had to." Landing it. Like you know a good baseball swing, even before you see the ball leave the park. Knowing he's just delivered just right.

She steps back from the door, and gives a small gesture with her head to follow her in. Reluctant, but some amusement behind her bright eyes. Jane has the distinct impression that he is the first man to visit Lisbon's apartment in months, but he doesn't remark on it.

He notices the TV in the next room, on commercial, and deposits himself on her bland white couch.

"Oh, goody, what are we watching?"

Lisbon, pouring grounds into her coffee maker, rolls her eyes. "The Sound of Music."

Jane smiles, trying to ignore the sudden sadness that runs through him. "And it's the beginning, yes?"

"Yes. The Reverend Mother just sent Maria off. She hasn't met the captain yet."

Jane is behaving himself, so he won't point out that it's interesting that Lisbon says she hasn't met the Captain, rather than saying she hasn't met the children, considering that she's there to be a governess. Suggests that the part of the movie Lisbon most marvels at is Maria getting swept off her feet by some older, intelligent, worldly man. If he weren't behaving himself, he'd have a field day with that.

Lisbon comes in then, holding two cups of coffee. Hands him his, and he takes a sip.

Well, it's kind of like sipping heaven. Seriously like sipping heaven. "What is this?"

She eyes him with evident satisfaction. "It's from a little coffee shop in New York, near my brother. They don't sell their blend to the public, but--" here, she gives an almost seductive look off to the side, "I guess I was persuasive."

Jane nods, understanding immediately. "The lengths men will go to to please a beautiful woman."

He expects her to look embarrassed, but she shoots him a quick, devious grin. Full of surprises.

"I thought you didn't drink coffee after seven."

"Shut up."

There is a surprising comfort sitting in Lisbon's practically sterilized living room, sipping coffee, watching a movie. Something melodic and intimate to it. Like nights with his wife when it was just the two of them, after they'd been together long enough to not feel like they had to impress each other.

"Teresa."

"Don't call me that." Keeping the barrier up, even doing something as intimate as watching a movie on her couch late at night. Like this is somehow an extension of the job, and letting him call her by her first name will change that.

"Sorry. Boss," he says, injecting some irony into the second word. "I was just going to say that I hadn't pegged you for a baseball fan." Indicating her jersey. And maybe he always knew she was athletic, was competitive, but he would have thought the whole game of baseball developed too slowly for her taste. She's fiery, has way too much extra energy for that kind of thing.

"My father was big on baseball. He used to make me go to games." A sober look in her face. "I hated it."

"My wife was from Philadelphia, she was a huge Phillies fan. She used to make me go to games with her." A grin. "I hated it too. She would have had a fit last year, after the world series." Seeing his wife in his mind now, red cap over her blonde hair, the only Phillies jersey among a sea of Dodgers fans.

"Well," Lisbon replies, "Any fellow female die-hard is a friend to me."

It's the first time he's really thought about it, but he's struck by how much Lisbon and his wife would have liked each other. His wife—bright, beautiful, so refreshingly devoid of vanity—and Lisbon, street-smart, tough, sharp-witted, but with bottomless reserves of compassion. They would have complimented each other famously. Except that he and Lisbon probably wouldn't know each other if she was still alive, and certainly wouldn't be friends.

He quiets when the movie comes back on—mostly. He moves closer to Lisbon on the couch as it grows later, nudging her in her ribs periodically to irritate her. She ignores him, crossing her legs under her and hunching her shoulders. Slaps him in the back of the head familiarly when he annoys her one time too many.

But she doesn't threaten to make him leave. And maybe he always knew she wouldn't, and that's why he's here in the first place. He knows she spends her nights alone like he does, haunted like he is. Profoundly comforted by her presence, by being in her space, more than he should be.

Reminded of he and his wife when they first got married, living in a charming, tiny apartment in New York, before they moved to LA. Nights watching old movies—Casablanca was his favorite—and laying after on their double bed, on top of the sheets and blankets, she asleep or nearly so, him playing with her hair and enjoying the quiet. Their own little world. This evening has that sort of lilt to it.

Which he can't stop thinking when he goes into her kitchen to pour himself more coffee, or when he goes into her bathroom to wash his hands, and find the mirrors fogged up from the shower she probably took just before he came here. And when he passes her bedroom on the way to the couch, and glimpses her bed, the sheets still rumpled from the night before. Distracted by the fact that this is where Lisbon sleeps.

And thinking, when he sits next to her again, that she should never wear anything but what she's wearing right now. And that includes the plum purple dress she wore to last years Christmas party, the fitted one that showed some leg, and had him and Rigsby and even Cho gawking at her the whole night. Something about her dressed down that's even more alluring.

"This is my favorite part," she says, cutting through the silence, with a giggle that doesn't sound like it belongs to her.

It's the part right before the Captain breaks up with the baroness, when he's up on the balcony, watching Maria walking by the lake behind his house. Watching her with some kind of longing that Jane thinks he understands.

"Admiring the unattainable," Jane says, thinking that maybe Lisbon likes the idea of being unattainable, even behind all her toughness. And to most men, she absolutely is—tough, confident, rarely does anything she doesn't want to. Hard to hold on to. The kind of beautiful that's just there, without her having to try so hard. Unattainable, indeed.

Lisbon squirms a few minutes later in her seat, when the two on the screen declare their love in the gazebo, trying to look off at something else.

"Are you embarrassed to watch a romantic scene with me, Lisbon?" Unable to resist. And really, comparatively speaking, he's been good all night.

"Shut up."

"That scene has embarrassed you since you were a little girl. You always been afraid of intimacy, Teresa?"

"And I guess you're the kind of person who thrives on it," she bites back.

"That's an interesting thing to say."

"I'm glad I entertain you."

Laying back on the couch now, hugging a pillow in her lap. He realizes late, quite late, that she smells like vanilla, and that the edges of her hair are still damp. Something distracting about that that he can't place.

"This is your favorite movie," he says, just to say something. And feels that sadness he felt when he first came in, and she told him what was playing.

She doesn't ask him how he knows that, she's stopped asking him so much how he works his magic—just accepting it as magic.

"I didn't see it until I was twenty-five." Not sure why he's inviting this conversation, except that he needs to have it.

"And why not until then?" She may not be Jane, but Lisbon has intuition, certainly—she has it in spades.

"That's the year I asked my wife to marry me." Smiling at the memory. "She said yes, under three conditions. One, I had to agree to make her Alfredo at least twice a month. Two, I had to always be honest when she asked me if an outfit made her look fat."

Lisbon laughs appreciatively. "Nothing worse than a liar," she agrees.

"And three, I had to agree to watch the Sound of Music. And answer a five-question quiz on it."

Probably the most he's talked about his wife in two years, but there's so much more to say—she challenged him, she didn't let him get away with all that much. She was funny, sarcastic, but never mean-spirited. Never difficult. Not the sainted woman he's made her in his mind in recent years. A real person.

And he's just realized that putting her on a pedestal is unhealthy. Because she was plenty just as she was. Because it's even more impossible to get over a saint than a woman. And she'd want to be remembered as she was, even if he'll never be able to leave her behind.

"I'm sorry, Jane."

He gives a deprecatory shrug. "But I still watch it," shooting a meaningful look at her. "Like you still go to baseball games."

She smiles. "I do." A sweet look in her green eyes. She seems to be considering something.

"Maybe I'll make you dinner," she says. Biting her lip, like she's afraid he'll somehow reject the offer.

"That would be nice. If you'd let me help." Seeing an image in his head now, he and her working together in the kitchen, calm, unceremonious. Just them.

"I might let you help me," she says. "But if you burn a thing in my Kitchen, you're a dead man. You can make a salad."

Lisbon and his wife are not similar, he knows that. But this night is something he's had before. Something he misses now, more than almost anything.

Feeling a cinch in his chest loosening, some pressure going out. Filling a void, but with something different. Not replacing what he once had with some lesser version, but having an alternative.

"Noted."


End file.
